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starseternl · 15 days

Text

i. stardust; azriel.

synopsis : azriel x half-seraphim!reader. your first starfall with the inner circle, nerves dizzying you like wine. what's worse? watching your love for azriel go unrequited as he dances with anyone but you. but ... is it really unrequited?

warnings : mild swearing, insecure reader / comparing herself to elain, fast-paced emotions, rushed ending, unedited.

a/n : this is my first fic writing for acotar here so pleasee bare with me ( this is also unedited / not proof read, so i apologize for any mistakes ) <3 i hope i did azriel some justice :,) no huge warnings here, just fluff with a hint of angst in between. and absolutely no hate to elain !! she’s the loml tbh.

word count : 6,271

Seventy years.

That’s how long you’d known Rhysand’s family. How long you’d known Azriel.

Seventy years, and yet, this was your first Starfall with them. After all, you had felt too guilty, leaving your boss – Madja – lonely on such a beautiful occasion. The woman wasn’t one for extravagant parties, and often stayed in as the two of you cooked together, much like a mother and a daughter would. Sure, it wasn’t much . . . And it certainly didn’t feel any different from your typical weekends. Yet, the warmth of the moment always had you savoring it. Madja was hard on you, but it was undeniable, the maternal instinct she seemed to possess.

But no amount of beef stew or spiced tomato soup could ever amount to what you felt now.

You stood before Morrigan’s bedroom mirror, unsure of what to do with yourself. Was that even you, staring back? Your eyes were wide, lined with kohl and a strange, silver paste, almost hidden behind your curled lashes. Your lips, parted in a small gape, were the color of aged wine – shining. Dark.

Tempting.

You wanted to congratulate Mor on the work of art she had produced out of you – but before you could utter another word, your gaze fell to the dress.

And, oh, was it breathtaking.

Your bodice cupped your chest like it was molded to you, skin-to-skin, the velvet softer than anything you’d ever had the pleasure of feeling. The deep cobalt blue shifted in the light, almost like molten lapis, placing perfect emphasis on your curves, catching the glow of faelights in just the right spots. You’d never worn anything sleeveless before; you’d always thought them to look boring. But looking down past the sweetheart neckline, to the thick ribbon wrapped around your waist, lacing up your back, ending in that long, perfect bow … Even you had to admit it was a work of art.

You lifted the satin skirts, peering down, wondering if –

“Don’t do that!” Mor playfully hissed at your side, swatting your hands down and away from the delicate material. “You’ll wrinkle it … I spent good money on this dress, you know.”

But you didn’t have the heart to banter, now. Your mouth felt dry as you gravitated towards the mirror, fingertips grazing its surface. “This doesn’t feel real,” you admitted with an exhale, so quiet that your friend barely even caught it.

Her gaze softened a fraction, swiftly standing at your back, fingers adjusting the material lacing you together. Honestly, you were thankful they were there; it felt like the only thing keeping you from crumbling. You had been longing for this for years after meeting the Inner Circle. But, now? Coming to their little Velaris party made you feel as if you were officially one of them. Their friend, their family.

You almost trembled as you – gently, this time – swept your skirts off the floor, taking small steps towards the door, making great attempts not to trip over the blonde’s brand new heels, the ebony leather so fine it barely cut into your flesh. She stifled a laugh at your poor attempts, offering you her bare arm to steady yourself. You graciously accepted, sheepishly gripping your billowing skirts tighter in your free palm. Not that you could admit such a bold claim aloud, but it wasn’t the shoes that had you dizzy. You had worn ridiculous heels many times in your life; boots, stilettos . . . This shouldn’t have been an issue.

Instead, what shook you was the knowledge that he would see you. You, in your sapphire dress. You, clumsily dancing for the first time in years. You, always embarrassing yourself. Always the fool.

The shadowsinger, your muse. He was so graceful, so lovely. Untouchable. Everyone could see that he deserved someone of pure light. Someone soft, like a blanket of warmth. Something you could never be, you supposed. For all you were good at was healing flesh wounds. You never knew how to navigate a faerie’s heart, how to soothe the cracks and wounds.

A muscle ticked in your jaw as the two of you pushed Mor’s bedroom door open, your expression only relaxing as your friend let you go once you’d reached the great, spiraling staircase. The sisters, on the other hand, filed out of a room to the left – each one striking. Nesta in death’s black, ink dripping down every pore. Feyre, in a familiar shade of starlight silver, practically glowing with joy as she bounced little Nyx in her arms. And Elain . . .

You felt a twinge of jealousy upon seeing how stunning she looked tonight. Mauve sweeps of tule and silk hugged her hourglass figure like it was art, the draping sleeves like wisps of petal. Her skirt fell to the floor in great volumes – she looked a bit like a flower, herself. You suddenly felt that confidence, blazing and bright, dwindle down to nothing but a spark. A new reminder that you were like her shadow. Pretty, but never enough to be seen, not while Elain existed. You bit down on your cheek to keep yourself from potentially hurling, stepping to the side in a swift bow as the Archerons passed, teetering down the staircase as one. Feyre had ordered you not to do so, as you were ‘family.’ Even so, you could never suppress the urge.

It was pitiful of you, you had to admit. Elain … She’d never done anything wrong. Perhaps it was merely nature to blame another on your shortcomings, but even when that sinking feeling dove deep beneath your skin, guilt plagued and ate at your heart. Again and again she’d bake sweet cakes and cookies for you – again and again she’d bring you flowers, bright smiles. All because she knew you were unsteady, afraid. Yet you couldn’t stop. Not when Azriel’s gentle smiles only seemed to bloom for her sunlight.

Only when you heard hushed chatter and laughs did you spring back up, sucking in a breath. You peered over the edge, stomach churning as you watched the shadowsinger transfixed by the doe-eyed female. How could you join them, now, when you realized you had no one to talk to? Cassian and Nesta. Amren and Varian. Rhysand and Feyre. Azriel and Elain. Even Mor had found her place beside a newly bashful Emerie. You had been hoping that Gwyneth would join you – but the Nymph stayed in the Library, tending to books with Clotho.

Ripping the handrail, dark nails scraping, you quietly made your down, inch by inch, silently, in hopes no one would see, and –

“Oh, you sure clean up nicely,” came Cassian’s whistle of approval. You groaned, stopping halfway to the floor to dramatically hang over the railing.

“Did you really need to do that? I was trying to be discreet,” you huffed, hands on your thinned waist. You quickly finished your descent, ready to knock heads with the male, his chest puffed out in rather unnecessary pride.

And you would have, if the weight of a certain gaze tore at your focus. Your eyes slid to Azriel’s, and for once, he didn’t shy away. He only watched, those smooth, pretty lips parted in something resembling awe. Elain glanced between the two of you, and for a moment, you could have sworn excitement – anticipation – flash in her lovely brown eyes.

You practically floated towards the Illyrian, drinking him in. That dark hair, clumsily styled into a dark pool of voluminous strands. The way his white blouse – a shade you rarely saw him in – was ever so slightly unbuttoned, revealing hints of his tattoos. But what really caught your eye was the velvet blazer of deepest blue. An article of clothing that perfectly matched your gown.

You, painfully, let your eyes drift to the blonde fae, raising your brows, as if you say, you did this? Mor only grinned, looping her arm through Feyre’s ignoring your inquiry.

But, in the meantime, Azriel hadn’t stopped watching you, from the moment he saw you take the first step towards the hall. He knew you’d be wearing cobalt tonight. He had specifically asked Mor, in fact, smitten and riddled with nerves. But what he didn’t anticipate was how it made him feel. It was the same blue that shone in his siphons, and his heart stirred, a strange sense of warmth rising to his head and chest. It was as if you were his. His to hold, his to touch, his to kiss. His shadows danced, a wisp curling around your neck and winding through your hair, like a necklace. He could feel them giggling like children.

Before he even had the chance to get ahold of the shadows, you were already laughing with them, a finger gently coming up to examine your newfound jewelry.

The male stepped closer to you, rose dusting his cheeks. “They seem to be in a good mood.” He watched you play with them, the one laying on your collar bones shifting to wind itself up and around your forearm, like a serpent, loyal to its mistress. “They like you, I mean,” Azriel clarified as you peered up at him.

“How cute …” you murmured in awe, feeling them pulse against your skin. You met his hazel eyes once again, unable to wipe the grin off your face. “They’re beautiful.”

Beautiful beautiful beautiful. He couldn’t help the small, careful upturning that graced his lips as he let a million thoughts wander through his head. You’re the one who’s beautiful, he wanted to respond – but for the sake of his nerves, and yours, he held his tongue. Instead, he hummed, “We match, you know.”

Your eyes widened, as if you had hoped he wouldn’t notice. “Ah … Right,” your eyes widened, pupils dilating further, “I swear, I didn’t plan this. It’s a coincidence. If I knew you were already wearing blue, I would have asked to change – I don’t mean to steal your thunder.”

Azriel barked an uncharacteristically joyful chuckle, throwing his head back for a moment, the blush dusting his cheeks only glowing a bit brighter. Something you failed to see, eyes stuck to the arch of his throat, the way the muscles moved, his tattoos coming to life. “No,” he gently countered once he’d come down from the clouds. “I think it looks nice. You – we – look nice. Blue suits you.”

And as your lips curled, Azriel thought his heart may have stopped. Had he done that? Him? A sense of pride sparked in his blood, his shadows flaring in reply, still ever so unresponsive to their master. You could feel the way they seemed to shy against you, the dense air they washed over your skin warming – you could’ve sworn it felt like a flush.

You were so enchanted with the creatures, with the peace they brought you; the way it washed over your senses, so much so that you completely missed the velvet-smooth voice that filled your ears. It was an effort to look up from the shadows – after all, you were more than content to sit right there on the floor and play with them all evening, dress and all. But nothing else mattered when a gentle shiver spread through your body, a silken sensation blooming at your shoulder. Your eyes narrowed to the – albeit, gloved – hand that rested on your skin. You didn’t need to see the scars beneath, to know who it was.

Azriel gazed down at you with eyes so full that something in your chest ached in response, drowning under the waves of thousands of words unsaid. You couldn’t read them, each syllable too muddled, too deep to reach – but you knew something was there, lurking beneath those amber irises. “Could you repeat that?” you finally murmured, clasing your hands before you. Your tone was sheepish, the very admission an embarrassment.

“I asked if you would save me a dance,” he clarified. You could hear it, the slight tremor in his voice. He was a master of physical arts, and his body didn’t often betray him – only you knew Azriel well enough to gauge the nerves in his words. “I know you have a duty to dance with Rhys, and Cass is going to snag you, as he does to every pretty lady. But I think I’d regret it, if I didn’t get at least one with you.”

How could you say no? How could you be sensible, think of the consequences, when that stare was so sweet? It was a look you could never refuse, not even when you knew accepting would break your doe-eyed friend’s heart.

Yes; you saw how Elain looked at him, how her rosy lips parted when he walked into a room. She sat up straighter beside him, seemed to speak louder. Like a star hidden by the mountains, rising into the sky to be admired by all. Around Azriel, the girl bloomed. And every hushed compliment from the Shadowsinger was a seed planted along that pale skin, growing until she could one day love herself as much as everyone else seemed to love her. It was shameful, to live off another’s joy … But watching how smooth they were together, you couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to be loved by him. Selfish. You knew she loved him first, yet you craved him more than all else. You knew you had no right to want his touch, to crave him like air, but you did both. He was your air, yes – the kind that burned your lungs, coughing on stardust, too much to look at, blinding, suffocating –

“Yes.”

The word came choked, pulling you from the waters of your mind. “Yes, of course,” you repeated again, softer this time. You were never a dancer, could never drift across the ballroom like shallow water. But with him, it felt different. Wings could sprout from your back – you could fly, when his spotlight was on you.

The male’s face seemed to relax with the acceptance, warmth spreading to his cheeks. You were in your own little world, a fragile bubble that you wanted to stay in forever … Until a louder, feminine voice put a pin in it.

“Right, we get it, you want to tear each other’s clothes off,” Mor teased with a groan, red gown twisting as she faced the two of us, Emerie peeking out from behind her. “But I’m not missing Starfall because two insufferable idiots refuse to get a move-on. I’ve got things to do.” She winked, and with the click of her tongue, Rhysand nodded. Nodded – but you could see the smirk on his lips when his gaze fell on Azriel.

“As refreshing as this is,” he agreed, “we have a duty to make an appearance. Lest you want to be chastised by our people, I suggest we leave.” He had taken Nyx from the bundle in Feyre’s arms, bouncing the babe in his own large embrace. The boy was grasping at his fathers blue-black hair, pulling at the strands.

You brushed past the Illyrian to stroke Nyx’s head, cooing for the small child. Barely a toddler, and you could tell he’d grow to be as strong as – if not stranger than – his father. But it certainly brought no fear, often surrounded by the coddling of the adults around him.

As a half-Seraphim, yourself, you were less on the … Territorial side. Your instincts were more like a soft duvet, contrary to Azriel and Cassian’s hammer-like tendencies. Thanks to this, the Night Court’s heir had grown quite fond of you – of course, not nearly as much as his mother and father, but you were a close third. You swept the black-haired boy into your arms, holding him at eye-level with you, his chubby fingers reaching for your pearls and jewels. “Ah-ah,” you tutted, a mock frown placed on your painted lips. “I know these are pretty, but your Auntie spent her hard earned money on these. You can touch when you’re older.”

Nyx seemed to deflate with the rejection, and you almost felt guilty for the poor thing. His mother, donned in white, cupped his little face in her hands and pressed a kiss to his head.

“Now, let’s not get pouty … You’ll perk right back up when you see the treats Elain made for the party,” the High Lady hummed. At the word “treats”, he seemed to glow once again, tiny wings flapping as Feyre took him back, bouncing him against her chest. You couldn’t help the giggle that slipped past your lips, the scene painted perfection. You were glad to see your friend with such a loving family around her – she deserved it.

A cool breeze grazed your back and you strained your head to peek behind you, eyes drinking in a torso covered in black, white, and blue. “Let’s not keep Nyx waiting. He’ll grow impatient,” Azriel suggested, that quiet, smooth voice loud in your ears. You could feel his shadowed smirk, that silent humor. He reached a gloved hand out to you and your heart seemed to melt. Was he really asking to escort you? You slid your fingers between his, feeling the rough, charred skin mold to the tight fabric of the gloves. It was a familiar sensation, comforting. The nice thing about loving the Shadowsinger? You always knew. You knew it was him when he’d touch your arm, scarred fingertips all too easy to feel. You knew it was him when you saw shadows snake across the floor of every room, moments before you saw him. Mother, you even knew him down to that night-chilled mist and cedar scent. It blanketed you on drunken nights in which he walked you back to your room in Feyre’s estate, lingering even when you’d crawled into bed and fallen asleep like a rock. His hand tightened around yours, sliding his arm so it supported yours, linking your bodies together. Something about his shadows seemed more careful than before, like summer air.

You supposed you wouldn’t mind if your hair got ruined if it meant Azriel got to fly you there. Mor could deal with it.

***

By the time the Illyrian set you on the pavement outside The Rainbow, you were already exhausted. Yes, you were a night owl – fitting for the court you stayed in – but the heavy jewels stuck to your arms, your neck, and the weighted material of your dress – it all had you wanting to sit down and doze off for a good few hours. You knew your feet would ache by the end of the evening. You could hear the booming music, the orchestra’s melody brighter than the stars, the cheers of Rhysand’s subjects as he led his mate and son down the stairs. You could almost picture it without seeing it then; the Lord and his Lady, glorious like the moon.

You let the Spymaster set your hand on his, leading you down the steps, ebony wings never quite dragging as you followed him. You had wanted to thank him for the fly, an excuse to talk to him amongst the vast expanse of people –

But something else caught your eye.

The sky.

Your lips parted in wonder, a sort of floating sensation spreading through your body. It was beautiful. You knew starfall wasn’t about the actual glowing dots in the sky, but the spirits, coming to visit in star-shaped forms. And you watched the large bodies descend from the pool of black, silently colliding with the streets of velaris, leaving the pavement sprinkled in glittery, illuminated substances. it painted the streets, the buildings – you felt like you were standing in a fantasy. things felt … peaceful. soft.

“Pretty, aren’t they?” Cassian smirked from behind you, an arm slung around Nesta’s waist – much to her teasing dismay, as she mouthed a short “possessive baby,” to you. You nodded at the warlord, the corners of your mouth lifting … only for them to fall right back down when he added, “Yeah. They’re dying out every year. One day, they’ll be gone.”

You gasped, brows dipping. Your stomach seemed to churn, your gaze on the spirits suddenly grew heavy, sorrowful. Your excitement died down to a sort of mourning. You knew you’d be alive another, what, five hundred years? More? Would they be gone by then? Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Nesta jab her mate in the stomach, scolding him for the sudden trainwreck of angst.

You spent most of the party sitting around members of the court, sipping expensive wines and gazing up at the glass roof, coated in that glowing powder. You couldn’t keep your gaze off of it – not when Rhysand swept you into a waltz, his dancing skills smooth as you remembered from Under the Mountain. Elegant as the dark, night incarnate. He certainly lived up to the name, gliding across the marble floor with such ease that you almost slipped on your own two feet, practically being dragged around like a ragdoll. You excused yourself shortly, handing him off to his wife, who scowled when he seemed to pout, clearly enjoying torturing you, ever the brother-figure. You knew he’d be in it for a mouthful at home. It made you chuckle, even when Cassian took the chance to wrap his arm around yours, that boysterous demeanor louder with the consumption of so much alcohol. You could smell it on his breath, and see it in his sloppy dancing – and when he asked you to twirl him, the male practically playing limbo to try and fit under your raised arm. You sniggered, mocking his height – until those wings slapped you square in the face when he finally succeeded. You grumbled, excusing yourself to find a drink as his warm, hollering laughter followed you down and across the ballroom.

That left one dance owed.

Azriel.

It wasn’t that you weren’t looking forward to it. Quite the opposite, actually. Rather, it was that the shadowsinger was nowhere to be found. You knew he had the tendency to slip off into the security of his shadows during large gatherings … But what were you to do? It was nearly two in the morning, and things were coming to a close. Or, at least, the music was. It had grown softer, suitable for smalltalk and laughter, rather than dance and partying.

Plus, Elain was missing, too, and for some strange reason, it made your skin itch. Was she with him? Had they snuck off alone, to admire the moonlight? You couldn’t blame them; she had looked lovely that evening. You admired her for it. You always had. She was there for you when others were not, an angel in disguise, fallen from the heavens. You hadn’t known the Mother was capable of creating a fae so perfect. Didn’t want to know. At least, not while it made you feel so … average. Good for nothing.

You gripped your arms, turning to gaze at your friends, huddled and chattering like a flock of birds. Radiant. Untouchable. Did you belong there, with them? Placed on a pedestal, to be admired and feared and loved? It had you wanting to hurl, a shiver making its way up your back. You swiftly jerked your head forward, heels clacking, feet aching as you slipped down a dark hall, relishing in the way the voices and music seemed to die down the further you walked.

You reached a small archway, illuminated only by the bright moonlight, a small breeze leaking in through it. You stepped past the threshold, finding yourself on a familiar balcony – familiar not by memory, but by description. Feyre told you about it many times, about how she’d shared her first genuine moment with Rhysand there. You scoffed and shook your head, the irony lifting your mood. Leaning on your forearms, the railing cool on your skin, you let the wind ruffle – if not ruin – your hair, eyes fixated up. You’d miss it, when those little glowing shapes were nothing but a whisper of dust in the world. Despite being pissy at Cassian for soiling your spirits with the fact, you were also grateful, because it meant you could savor their presence just a tad bit more.

“Feeling overwhelmed?” You instantly knew who that voice was. Without turning, you responded with a hum. “I needed a bit of quiet. You Illyrians can be insufferable.”

Azriel barked a laugh, the sound so genuine and rare that you felt your chest stir. He sounded like pure starlight, and you wanted to fall into it. “Maybe so, but I don’t see you leaving.”

“Because you fools would go batshit insane if I ever did.” I manage to roll my eyes, fighting back a love-struck smile. “What’ve you been doing all night? I thought you’d be more into the celebration. I know parties aren’t your thing … But I was told you adored Starfall.” Az considered, the material of his suit creasing. “Elain asked me to take her to The Rainbow’s gardens. We watched the spirits from there – better view.”

Truth. You could tell by the way his voice softened, the corners of his eyes relaxed, his shadows hiding nothing. Your stomach dropped, as though you hadn’t seen it coming. Of course he was with Elain. When was he not? You pressed your lips together before replying, eyes dropped from the sky to your clasped fingers. “Mm. Had I known, I would’ve stayed outside … Cass and Rhys practically danced the soles of my feet off.”

You heard a deep, joyous rumble to your left. “Did Cassian step on your toes?”

I sighed dramatically, neck craning. “Obviously. And gave me one Hel of a nosebleed”

“I’m sure I could do better. I like to think I’m in control of my own body.”

You shook your head, lips twitching. “Finally offering me that dance you wanted?” I joked, lifting my skirts.

“You know I’m not one to break a promise,” came his reply, that dark smirk on the panes of his face. You giggled, turning to exit the balcony and make my way down to the ballroom. “Race you?”

Rather than complying like he usually would, the male caught hold of your wrist – gently, but hard enough that you halted.

“Stay.”

Your heart couldn’t have thundered as loud as it did then. Heat rose to your cheeks and you turned your head to look at him – really look at him, for the first time in hours. And, gods, did you regret it. Flushed by the cold in the wind, hair disheveled, falling into his eyes … You were done for.

“Stay?” you parroted, head cocking to the side. “There’s no music up here.” Half truth; music leaked from below, but it was so quiet, our hushed voices could easily cover it.

“I know. But if we go down there, we’ll be bombarded with those busybodies. I want it to be –” he shook his head, a glow rising to his cheeks. “Just … Stay.”

Your heart melted, shoulders slumping, the grip on your skits loosening as you faced him. He wanted you to be alone. Just the two of you. He may not have outright admitted it, but you could see it on his face, the hopeful shimmer in those hazel eyes, like honey. It was often like this, with you two; unbeknownst to your friends, your relationship wasn’t all teasing and joking. No – outside their gaze, in the shadows, the two of you oftentimes dwelled in silence together. You had trouble sleeping most nights, and came shuffling out of your room for milk and tea, a book clutched in your hands. And Azriel? His shadows simply never shut up. Sleep wasn’t much of an option for him. It became tradition, your nightly meet-ups on the roof of Feyre’s manor, laughing and indulging in Rhys’s good wine. It was the first time you’d seen the large man drunk, suddenly becoming needy and sensitive, like an oversized baby.

You’d been staring at him a moment too long, eyes locked onto his parted lips, those flushed cheeks. Shaking your head, you finally turned your body, nearing him with a carefulness akin to approaching a wounded deer. “Okay,” you finally breathed. You knew you were a mess, so late into the evening. Tangled, frizzy hair, wrinkles on your dress. But little did you know, you’d never looked more beautiful to Azriel.

Without another word, his hands were on you. They cupped your waist, guided your hands to his shoulders, with such grace that you swore he had experience. Maybe the Spymaster was a playboy, as strange as that was for a male of his kind.

But all thought emptied from your head when he guided you by the hips so you were centimeters from him, face so close to his chest you could feel the warmth coming in waves. Could feel his shadows tenderly stroke your cheek, winding around your neck and shoulders like scarves. You couldn't even bring yourself to touch them, play with them – not while your hands were on him, feeling muscle shift beneath his skin and clothes as he swayed you, ease and relaxation working its way into his step. Even with no real music, no tempo, Rhysand and Cassian’s dances paled in comparison to this (not that Cassian’s had much appeal … That man was like an ostrich with a broken ankle on the dance floor). This, with those eyes gazing down at you with such peace. This, listening to his every breath, the way it seemed to catch when you moved to sling your arms around his neck, bringing you impossibly closer. This was what you loved most.

You knew Azriel couldn’t go farther than touching a female’s hands without beating himself to a pulp – knew he ridiculed himself too much, as too afraid. Yet, something changed in him when he brought a hand previously on your waist to your head. It was by no means a harsh action, but rather something done with such softness that your heart fractured. He cupped the back of your head, fingers buried in the soft strands of your hair, and brought your head to his chest, letting you rest your cheek against the soft silk of his dress-shirt and blazer. You were no longer dancing – you were moving, like plants in the wind. But it was too intimate to be labeled a dance. You were simply holding one-another. Holding on to something you couldn’t quite place.

“I’m … Glad I got one dance in tonight.” His voice seemed to vibrate across his body, sending waves down your cheek. You couldn’t see his face – not when yours was stuck to his chest, but you could hear something sweet in his tone.

I huffed against the silks and cotton, inching back to get a good look at his expression. “You didn’t dance with anyone else? Not even Elain?”

He raised a dark brow, shadows swirling around his back. “Lucien would gut me if I dared to try.”

“Lucien isn’t here tonight.”

“Mm. Something Elain was awfully upset about. It wasn’t on my bucket-list, though.”

Surprise coursed through your veins, going right to your thundering heart. He didn’t want to dance with her? The female who was practically the belle of the ball? And she … Was waiting for Lucien. You couldn’t quite believe it, but you knew the shadowsinger wasn’t one for lies. For a spymaster, he was a terrible actor to anyone who knew him. He could lie to enemies, to his brothers when it counted. But otherwise, those cheeks would be dusted in pink, gaze practically oozing nerves.

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled from your throat. “Well, I am more than honored to be your first pick,” you teased, jabbing him between the ribs.

But Azriel was unfazed. Where you had expected a laugh, there was only his heavy stare, his parting lips. “You’re the only one I ever want to dance with.”

Your heart seemed to stop its beating right there and then. Your throat, dry like sandpaper, seemed to keep so many thoughtless words as you could only stare up at him, quite aware of the heat rising to your face. You’re the only one I ever want to dance with.

What the hell did that mean?

“I know I’m one hell of a dancer, but you need to give Rhys some credit, too,” you finally bit out, the breezy jest you’d intended to lead into your tone coming out strained, nervous.

Azriel bit his lip, those shadows swirling to cup his face, his neck, peeking over the expanse of his wings. He was … Embarrassed. “You don’t understand,” he murmured, a scarred – and gloveless, you noted – hand reaching to cup your face – then stopping before it could reach the skin you so desperately needed him to touch. “I – you don't …” he huffed, raking those fingers through his hair. “You are much denser than Cassian tried to let on.”

Denser.

It hit you like an arrow to the chest, a zing of shock shaking you to your very core. Was this him confessing? You mindlessly blinked, makeup-covered lashes fluttering. The male you had been pining after for years wanted you. In retrospect, it made sense. He always sat by you, always did things for you, always protected you, first. But there was always an excuse to bypass the information like it was nothing. The way he once loved Mor, that he was simply a kind soul … Which was the truth, beneath the hard mask of the Night Court’s Spymaster.

Then, Elain. But Elain wasn’t in the picture anymore, not when Azriel had just revealed her little affairs with Lucien. Not when he was admitting that this was all so, so real.

“Az –” you choked out, reaching for his hand, taking it in yours. His scars were warm, and despite how he refused to look you in the eye, his fingers clutched yours so desperately that you swore you felt tears well, burning you. “Are you trying to – do you … Fuck, this is hard.” You exhaled, a sudden wave of nerves hurling at you. You didn’t know what to say, what to do, where to look – and hell, he looked so pretty, with those rosy cheeks and messy hair. You opened your mouth to finally just say it, the words bounding up your throat, ready, and –

Snap.

Your chest heaved, something missing for years, something hollow, suddenly full. Like you’d found an oasis in a desert, and you couldn’t waste even a single drop. You’d wondered since you were a child who your missing piece was. Who was tethered to your mind and body and heart, who was destined to be yours.

“Mate,” his shallow, hoarse voice cut through the thick air like a prayer.

All restraint snapped, all reason to be civil seemed to vanish as he cupped your face, thumbs running over your cheekbones. You could faintly see the outline of tears in the moonlight, coating his skin. Azriel, as you knew it, never cried. He never let himself cry, never even wallow in pity. Only that icy, silent rage. But seeing the emotion dripping down his face, all you wanted to do was hold him, tell him it was alright, tell him what you felt, that you loved him, to kiss him –

Just like that, his lips were on yours.

Fleeting, soft – but, gods, it was perfect. You could feel the trembling of his movements as they parted, the taste of him finer than champagne, a cocktail of bittersweet anticipation and fervent affection. Your hands slipped from his, rising to loop around his neck as he fluttered against your lips, a butterfly’s kiss. A sigh, scarcely audible, escaped you, carrying with it the weight of endless nights spent yearning for that exact moment. Your fingers tangle in the inky strands of his hair, and anchor to reality, prayer that it wasn’t a dream.

And even when you inched back for the breath that you were so bitter to need, the feeling of his touch lingered, his flavor coating your mouth, ever-present. You touched your forehead to his, and he didn’t mind that he needed to crane his neck forward to reach you. Not one bit – and especially not when you murmured into the night, meant only for his ears, a quiet “I love you.”

You felt it, the way he tensed in your embrace. Not in a defiant way, not something that spoke of regret for the moment you shared. But fear for something new – something unexplored.

“I love you, too.”

You could have gone and cried yourself a whole new ocean right there and then, even at the price of Mor’s scolding as your makeup dripped down your cheeks. But was it your fault? You didn’t think so – not that it mattered. All you saw was him, even when your eyes went blurry and your heart seemed to burst.

Then – footsteps, a familiar male voice. “Do you think they’re fucking out there?”

“Cassian!” Nesta hissed, a slap ringing through the dark hall behind them.

“He isn’t wrong …” Mor chirped, amusement echoing in each syllable. “Az looked like he was about to pass out when he saw her.”

Dear Mother. Of course your meddling friends wanted to stick their nose in your business. Indecent, perhaps, but you smiled all the same, rolling your eyes as the two of you listened to their ceaseless chatter.

“I think,” Azriel murmured, his wing curling around you, blocking out the moonlight and endless stars, “we should return before they start the next town gossip.”

“... Smart.”

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alistarascendance · 29 days

Text

❝𝐈 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐨, 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧—𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧?❞

— in which, fabled legend Alistar returns from the Chasm decades after their descent, only to find themself faced with an issue: humanity, in their absence, has created a world of suffering, dilapidated by greed, and Alistar’s presence only continues to fuel their selfishness, as a living legend must kill… or be killed.

Alistar: Ascendance is a cyberpunk, dystopian romance interactive fiction that was originally intended to simply be a story, before its writer (me) decided to be impulsive and turn it into an IF.

DISCLAIMERS

this story will contain depictions of alcohol, smoking, blood, violence, profanity, mild gore, yandere behavior, toxic relationships, suggestive themes, discrimination, self-hatred, mentions of emotional and physical abuse, suicidal thoughts, an oppressive government, fictional languages and religions, real world philosophies/religions including but not limited to: cynicism, nihilism and atheism; a corrupt world, discussion of morals and human conscience, as well as other mature themes. this list will be updated as the story is written.

please keep all of this in mind while reading!

A gender-selectable MC, who you choose the name, personality, sexuality, appearance, and morals of.

A wide variety of choices to choose from that will impact your story, and the need to keep your MC sane (or just go batshit insane. That works, too).

5 male love interests + 1 secret RO, all of whom you can maintain a simply platonic relationship with if you wish, or you can just continue to flirt with them endlessly (+ a FWB relationship for some).

An enriching world and story, set in a cyberpunk dystopia (we know all of you are here for the romance though).

A powerful MC 😔😔

ROs (romance options, also referred to as LIs or love interests).

THE SURFACE DWELLER:

Seven. 21, Chaotic Good. Mechanic.

“The HIVE needs to fall. There are no exceptions—not even for you.”

The first person you meet once you arrive on the Surface, you and Seven have a unique bond. He’s got a reputation in the slums and Neon for being great at parties, but his friendliness can easily be read as something more.

Is it something more? Further observations will have to be made…

THE SURVIVOR

Saturn. 23, Lawful Evil. Bartender.

“Keep your head down, and you’ll survive.”

The quiet bartender has a curious perspective on things. He seems to have no problem with the HIVE members patrolling his bar, even serving them drinks like they’re normal customers, despite their heavy armor and edges that are too sharp to be humane.

He also doesn’t seem to be particularly interested in you in the slightest. Why’s that?

THE DIPLOMAT

“Is it better to live in quiet solitude, your voice stripped and taken—or would you rather have died, knowing your voice was the loudest amongst them all?”

Chain. 23, alignment unclear. Current occupation unknown.

He’s someone to keep an eye out for. While he hasn’t practiced his craft in years, he may still prove to be dangerous. Just as friendly as Seven, but far more difficult to truly befriend.

Obtain new information as soon as possible…

THE PUPPET

Judge me if you must. It doesn’t change the fact that I’m up here, and you’re down there.

Orion. 25, Lawful Neutral. HIVE operative.

The HIVE member patrolling Saturn’s bar. Part of something greater than he is, but he’s a part of it, regardless. Keep him around…

OTHER ENTITIES

Argos: Neutral Good. Age unknown. The deity whose spear you brandished, after his passing. He was a good man, but the fact only makes your sins rest heavier in your heart.

Teacher: True Neutral. Around ~200 years old. The chasm-dwelling shadow who taught you all you know of the Chasm and its residents.

Alistar: alignment unknown. Around ~200 years old. That’s you! You’re Alistar. At least, that’s what the world has been calling you ever since you ended the war and revitalized humanity, so that is what you will be referred to as throughout the entirety of the story. However, if you’d like to change your name (as Alistar is the default) you may!

As I am primarily an author (as in I literally have done nothing else with my life) I am new to coding (I took ONE coding club in fourth grade) and am trying to write out and perfect a chapter before converting it into typical IF form.

Once I manage to get things situated, I’ll started to code. I’m currently almost done writing chapter 4, so I’ll start working on coding once I finish it.

If anyone wants to read the chapters I’ve written until now, just shoot me an ask or message :)) I’d be happy to show you. otherwise, here are the ones I’ve posted so far:

CHAPTERS

CHAPTER ONE: COURTING DEATH CHAPTER TWO: THOSE WHO REMAIN CHAPTER THREE: TARNISHED DREAMS

asked to be tagged for new chapters!

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wttcsms · 23 days

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you wouldn't be the first renegade to need somebody, atsumu miya

pairing atsumu miya x reader word count 1.4k synopsis love for you is holding him; love for him is allowing himself to be held. content contains hurt/comfort, intimacy, atsumu-centric, insecurities, unconditional love, showering together but make it sfw

The stinging spray of scalding hot water from the showerhead should be enough to get him to leave, but he barely registers the pain, can’t seem to bring himself to feel the heat, can’t seem to bring himself to feel anything.

No — that’s not entirely true. He feels one thing.

Devastated.

Everyone knows Atsumu Miya likes to talk shit on and off the court. It’s his thing, his trademark, his brand. Lots of athletes like to talk big about how they’re going to win; who the hell is going to support a guy who walks onto the court with a well, it’ll be alright if I lose.

He’s staring down at the tiles of the shower, can somewhat register the persistent barrage of water spraying onto his back as he has one hand splayed on the wall, shoulders slumped, water dripping from his hair and running into his vision, making everything blurry.

Don’t blink, he tries to demand of himself, but the issue is, we can’t always control our bodies. He has to shut his eyes, just for a brief second, and in that second, it all comes back to him.

The opposing team at set point. His team depending on him to serve. One point left. Only one chance. He can feel the stadium’s crowd holding their breath, can feel the lack of air in the atmosphere, can hear how loudly the blood is rushing to his head. Dizzy. Dazed. He doesn’t give into pressure, not anymore, not ever. Doesn’t feel performance anxiety, knows better than to try to attempt something flashy just for the glory of a good story to tell.

Give ‘em a serve they don’t have a chance of receiving, he demands of himself.

The final seconds of the match all come to him like stills from a movie, each frame another devastating blow to his ego, his self-worth, his very being. The ball is in the air, he’s bending his knees to prepare for the jump, his hand making contact with the ball. Something’s off, he can feel it upon first contact, but it’s too late to save, too late for him to change anything.

The ball lands.

On his side of the net.

He’s frozen in place as he stares ahead. He can tell the other team is cheering, slapping each other on their backs, and he can hear the blow of a whistle, the celebration from the crowd. But all he sees is the ball. All he sees is his failure.

Atsumu has spent a good portion of his volleyball career knowing that he plays the game better than most. It’s why he feels so comfortable talking about the lack of skills other players display. It’s why he always has something to say at practice, on the court, during a post-game interview.

And he knows he makes mistakes. He knows that he’s only human. But a bad serve in the middle of a game isn’t as crushing as knowing that he is the sole reason as to why the Black Jackals’ season is going to be ending early.

Where did he go wrong? He did everything perfectly, did everything the way he usually does. Why couldn’t he perform? Why did he let his team down? Why—

“Atsumu?”

He doesn’t look up, and all you can see is the sad shape of his outline from the foggy glass door of the shower. You know that Atsumu probably wants nothing more than to be alone right now, but you can’t help but worry when fifteen minutes have gone by, and you could still hear the shower running. That’s your first sign that something is wrong.

Atsumu is a notoriously quick showerer, to an almost concerning degree. When you first started living together, you debated planning elaborate tricks to see whether or not he was even using soap. (Which, in hindsight, was just flatout silly; he walks out the shower smelling overwhelming of his Axe Men’s 3-in-1 and Old Spice deodorant.)

No — the first sign that something is wrong would be his uncharacteristic silence on the trip back home. He hadn’t responded to your it’s okay, baby, you’ll get ‘em next season. Instead, he just looked out the window, the devastated expression on his face silencing you as well. Even when he lost to Kageyama, he had been disappointed, upset, but still talking big about how he was going to crush the Adlers next time around. He had then made a comment about Tobio’s stupid haircut, and that’s when you told him if he doesn’t have anything nice to say, he shouldn’t say anything at all.

Now, you’d give anything to have him say something. Something for you to work with.

“Atsumu?” You call out for him again, worried when you don’t see his figure moving.

Pathetic. Atsumu thinks that’s what he is. A loser, a fucking scrub, a failure. Even if his teammates won’t admit it, the media will. And what then? Will you think that about him too? It’d be the truth, wouldn’t it? Isn’t that why you’re in the bathroom now? To pity him?

He’s too busy tearing himself down to react to the distinct sound of you sliding back the glass door of the shower so you can enter it. There’s a brief burst of the cool air of the bathroom hitting his exposed body, but it evaporates the moment you shut the door.

“Oh, ‘Tsumu.” You whisper it, and he wants to tell you that he’s not fucking fragile. That he’s not going to shatter into a million pieces if you just raise your voice, if you tell him how you really feel about him. He doesn’t move, doesn’t turn around to face you. He doesn’t want to. He can’t.

His skin is red from the heat of the water, his back staring at you angrily, hurt. The skin’s going to need some time to heal, and you turn the faucet, lowering the temperature of the water.

“Turn around, honey. Please?” You’ve never seen Atsumu so upset before, so quiet. You wait several minutes for him to actually do as you request, and you think it’s only because he wants a way to get rid of you sooner.

You don’t say anything to him as you reach for his shampoo, letting it lather in your hands before you give him a pleading look, one that has him leaning down so you can reach his hair. It feels nice, he thinks, the way you’re shampooing his hair. You’re gentle with your movements, and it almost relaxes him.

You use your body wash on him. Massage the suds into his skin, but you’re mindful of the amount of pressure you apply. You know which areas of his skin is more sensitive from its exposure to the hot water, and you are careful with the spots of his body that he had chosen to be negligent with.

“Am I so fuckin’ worthless that you have to do somethin’ as simple as bathing me?” He’s not angry at you. He might spit out the words — words that come out sounding all raw and scratchy, like they had to personally claw themselves from his throat — but the anger is not directed at you. It’s at himself.

“Look at me.”

His eyes are glossy, wet, shiny, and you know it’s not because of the shower. You’ve never seen Atsumu cry before, and you’re not sure what you’re supposed to do. So, you do what feels right. You whisper his name softly, tenderly, and it’s this tenderness, your unwavering softness, your unconditional love, that breaks him. That makes him feel safe enough to break. That makes him think of the possibility that you’ll take these jagged pieces of him and piece them back together for him, with him.

He’s so much bigger than you. You tell him all the time that he’s larger than life, and he thinks about that comment as he lets himself sink into your open arms, as he lets himself be held. He has never felt smaller in his life, and in your embrace, he buries his face into your shoulder, letting his warm tears mix in with the water already on your body.

“I don’t know how you can still look at me.” He mutters, and every word is spoken onto your skin, tiny blades striking you.

Atsumu isn’t sure what he wants to hear, isn’t even certain that there’s anything that could be said to ease his devastation, but melts into you even more so when you tell him,

“Atsumu, I thought you already knew that nothing can change the way I look at you.”

#atsumu miya x you #atsumu miya x reader #atsumu x reader #hq x reader #haikyuu x reader #angst #one shot #fluff #drabble #imagine #alright if this doesn't make it to the tags im never posting again

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gl4zelily · 16 days

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HE THINKS YOU'RE DEAD.

alhaitham thought you died, but here you are, three weeks later. part 2.

word count : 769

genre : angst/reverse comfort, enemies to lovers?

pairing : alhaitham x reader

warnings : mentions of death, drinking

THREE WEEKS. that’s how long your commission to liyue had overran by. what was supposed to be a week-long trip had turned into a month as you ran into your old friends, who invited you to stay and catch up.

THREE WEEKS. that’s also how long it had been since the rumours of your demise had spread throughout sumeru, your name being the topic of every conversation. it must be some sort of cruel joke, a method of torturing him relentlessly. why wasn’t he there? why did the akademiya send you alone? why not him?

to anyone, it looked like ALHAITHAM hated you. in all honesty, he thought he did too. he thought he hated your stupid smile, your stupid laugh, your stupid comments, the stupid way your hair fell, the stupid teasing nicknames you’d give him. he thought the feelings of unease that overcame him when he watched you laugh with another nameless member of the akademiya was annoyance at your incapability of staying on task; he thought he hated you.

but now, sumeru’s renowned scribe sat alone in lambad’s tavern. it was almost as if he had fallen into a samsara, with nearly every day since the news of your death ending with him drinking away his turmoil until lambad refused to serve him any more. the mutters of disgust and judgement the citizens of sumeru city whispered around him never seemed to reach his ears, any care for his reputation disregarded. for, after all, what’s the use in caring when what you care most about is long gone?

it was well past nightfall when you returned to sumeru just over a month after your departure, and you decided to treat yourself to a well-deserved drink after your long journey, heading towards the tavern. the door swung open softly, the sound not registering in alhaitham’s mind, too far gone to distinguish between what was real and what wasn’t. once again, he was sat in his newly established “usual” seat, slumped over the table in the tavern that had emptied itself almost two hours ago. and, once again, it had gotten to the stage where lambad had refused to serve him anymore, and instead opted to leave him be while he went to bed. it was, quite frankly, a pitiful sight.

exhausted, you walk through the entrance, your gaze softening as it fell upon the man you had grown to care for over all the time you had spent with each other on research trips and just general work with the akademiya, despite the insults of incompetence he continuously threw your way.

“’haitham!” you call out playfully. “miss me?”

the soft sound of your voice penetrates his intoxicated state. he curses the dendro archon for the act of mockery.

“hey! don’t ignore me”

your voice rings in his ears again, ridiculing him. you were gone, he knew that.

“i know i’ve been gone for a while but you can’t escape me that easily-”

he turns round, expecting to be met with nothing, freezing when he sees you - the real you, not just another one of his hallucinations. a mixture of surprise and confusion overtakes your features when you’re faced with no snarky and irritated comments, no jokes about wishing you had stayed in liyue, and instead a look of pure hurt from alhaitham, an emotion that, as silly as it sounds, you thought he was incapable of feeling.

moments of silence go by before he dares to whisper “y/n?”, his voice cracking as he does so, as if acknowledging you would make you disappear once again. you don’t think you’ve ever seen anyone looking this lost, especially not the strong, ever stoic alhaitham. the teasing air you brought into the tavern shatters as your heart clenches inside your chest. “’haitham? what’s going on?” you ask, worried. wordlessly, he wraps his arms around your waist, engulfing you in a hug. you stiffen in shock at first before quickly reciprocating, with one hand coming to rest in his hair. a muffled voice from your neck whispers a rough “i thought you were dead”, his arms tightening around you as if you were going to leave if he loosened his grip. you held him gently, carding your fingers through his hair as you whispered soft reassurances of your safety to him. alhaitham was eternally grateful that you didn’t acknowledge the shudders of his body against yours as he attempted to retain the small amount of composure he had left as the two of you stood together in the comfort of each other’s arms in the soft glow of the tavern.

“i love you.”

a/n :

guys this is my first post & also first time writing! feel free to request literally anything (except smut)

hope you guys enjoyed <3

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riality-check · 10 months

Text

TW: past verbal and emotional abuse

The Harrington house is a game of perfection.

Steve has known this fact for as long as he can remember. There is a right way, a narrow way, a rigid way, of doing things. Numbers dictate all: rebounds, points, and assists for basketball, new PRs in freestyle and backstroke for swim. The numbers themselves do not matter; all that does is that they grow and shrink appropriately.

Infinite growth is not sustainable; not for Steve's stats, not for Richard's stocks. Both of them strive for it anyway.

The house must be clean. The parties can't be busted. The people of Hawkins will only say good things about the Harrington family. Gloria strives for these things, day in and day out.

The Harrington house is also a game of Perfection.

Steve hated that game growing up. The one with the little yellow pieces and the blue board. He was never able to get all the pieces in the right spot before the board spit them all back out.

It made a ticking noise, like a time bomb. Steve doesn't know when he started associating that sound with his parents.

It fits. It fits almost too well. They're fine, at least for a little while. The ticking starts quiet, then grows louder and louder until everything blows up.

The thing is, in Perfection, that the board blows up even if you put all the pieces in the right spots in time. The thing is, in the Harrington house, that everything blows up even if Steve does everything right.

The ticking lasts for days sometimes, weeks others. It's impossible, random, and impossibly random.

The only consistent thing is the board blowing up. And when that happens, so does the shouting.

The Party thinks that Tommy and Carol taught Steve to be cruel. That they're the ones who taught him how to bare his fangs and spit venom. That once he left them, the rage left him.

He's okay with letting them think that. It's easier than explaining that Richard and Gloria are the ones who taught him how to snap and shout, how to tear holes in other people with a few well-spoken barbs.

When Steve thinks of his parents, he thinks of fighting. He thinks of his father calling him useless and his mother calling him an idiot. He thinks of his mother calling his father dirt and his father calling his mother a bitch.

There are never any apologies. "I'm sorry" is never said in the Harrington house, even when the board gets reset.

They say "I got you pizza for dinner." "I saw this at the store and thought of you." "Do you want to come with me to get gas?"

And with that, the ticking starts up again.

Horrible things are said when the board blows up. Steve says horrible things when the board blows up. He's called his father an asshole and his mother self-absorbed and apologized without any apology at all.

He cleaned the pool instead.

Steve doesn't want to the board to blow up in the middle of the Munson trailer. It's why he's keeping his mouth shut while Eddie yells at him.

"What the hell, Stevie?" Eddie shouts, arms flying. "I told you that you can’t do that!"

“You told me you don’t want me to,” Steve says, staying calm and measured.

Calm and measured. Not blowing up. Steve isn’t going to snap or shout or bitch. He isn’t.

“Fucking semantics!”

“They were saying-”

“I don’t care what they were saying!” Eddie roars. “I don’t give a shit what they say about me!”

It’s true. Wayne calls Eddie “Teflon,” says that nothing sticks to him, least of all anyone’s opinion. Steve knows that Eddie doesn’t care about what most people in Hawkins think about him.

But he cares very much about what the people who care about him think.

Steve can say a whole lot of things right now. He’s angry, physically biting his tongue to ground himself. He can say a whole lot of things to cut Eddie to the bone, to end the argument and then some.

But he won’t.

Love is knowing how to hurt someone and choosing not to. It’s using a knife to split an apple to share instead of to cut skin to ribbons.

Steve can’t trust himself not to slash Eddie open. He says awful things when everything goes to hell like this, snaps back hard when snapped at first, operates purely on instinct.

He doesn’t want to hurt Eddie, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“I care that you could have gotten hurt when you swung at those assholes,” Eddie continues. “I care that I wasn’t there with you when you defended yourself. I care that you won’t let me take a look at your hands and make sure they’re alright.”

Steve squeezes the knuckles of this right hand in his left. It stings, but he’s fine. Nothing broken. He knows from experience

“Stop it, you’re hurting yourself,” Eddie barks.

Steve lets go of his hands, lets them hang loosely at his sides.

“So, what the hell, sweetheart?” Eddie asks, still loud, still snappish.

A variety of terrible answers surges to the front of Steve’s mind. Eddie’s biggest insecurities, the things he’s only told Steve when he thought he was asleep. Ways to wipe the anger off his face and replace it with stuff easier to manage: shock, hurt, sadness. Things he would say if he didn’t particularly like Eddie, if he were still in high school, if he were still in his parents’ house.

Steve doesn’t say anything. He keeps the knife in its drawer. He closes his eyes tight and breathes in once, then again.

“Hey,” Eddie says, softer.

Steve opens his eyes to find him a step closer, hands up in surrender.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says.

Oh.

Well.

Steve doesn’t know what to do with that.

He’s said it before. Of course he has. He knows the words, knows that he needed to say them to Dustin and Robin and Max, and he has. He’s stepped too far with jokes and forgot about some things and missed some things they’ve said.

But he’s never yelled at them. They’ve never yelled at him.

This is not how this is supposed to go. Eddie isn’t supposed to apologize. He’s supposed to clean Steve up or make him dinner or invite him along to go grocery shopping.

And Steve was supposed to snap back.

“It’s okay,” he says because that’s what he’s supposed to say, yeah?

Eddie shakes his head. “It’s not. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“It was bound to happen.”

Eddie stares at him, big doe eyes shining, like he has five heads. It makes Steve want to put his bloody hands behind his back, make him shrink.

He swears he can hear ticking, but the board just reset. Didn’t it?

“What?” Eddie asks.

Steve shrugs. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not. I got scared, but that doesn’t mean I get to yell at you. That’s not okay.”

What does Eddie get to do, if not yell?

I deserve it, Steve thinks, but he’s smart enough to know that saying that out loud will just lead to another fight.

There’s been barely any time to put the pieces back.

Steve doesn’t get it. But, he figures he’s always been a little slow on the uptake, so he can watch. Observe. Figure it out later on his own. He’s pretty good at that.

“Okay,” Steve says.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, and he holds his hands out for Eddie to take.

He’s dragged along to the sink, where Eddie rinses the cuts out with cool water before bandaging them up with the remnants of a box of Band-Aids from the bathroom. When they’re dry and finished, he presses a kiss to each knuckle, feather light.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, looking at Steve very seriously.

“Me, too,” Steve says, voice a little hoarse. “I’m sorry.”

It feels good to say. It feels good to mean.

Standing there in the kitchen of a trailer in Forest Hills, looking at the mismatched furniture and half-full ashtrays of the living room, holding hands with his boyfriend formerly accused of murder and apologizing for the first time and meaning it, Steve feels like he can finally breathe.

The ticking has finally stopped, and silence sounds so sweet.

#ria writes #steddie #steddie ficlet #st #st ficlet #stranger things #stranger things ficlet #steve harrington #eddie munson #angst #fluff #happy ending #tw verbal abuse #(it’s in the past)#idk what else to tag this #i’m tired #anyways it’s projection hours

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tojjist · 4 months

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“At Least” S. Gojo

☆ genre: angst to fluff (kinda)

☆ pairings: Gojo Satoru x f! reader

☆ summary: After Geto left, nothing has been the same. Especially not your relationship with Gojo Satoru. Once you decide to move to Kyoto for good, Gojo is less than pleased. But fate does not seem to want to let you go.

☆ cw: mentions of sex, depressed gojo, not spoiler free, hopping between timelines but like i added non-canon events, smoking, drinking, getting drunk, high school Gojo being a high school boy, cussing, mentions of drunk sex but it doesn’t happen, mentions character death (from the anime), gojo satoru (yes that's a trigger warning).

☆ wc : 5.6k

☆ a/n: this has been in the doing for so long? I've been waiting to have the chance to upload it for maybe a year now smh. Also was originally written for an irl of mine lmao

“Oh my god,” you emphasize each word, pushing the wooden chair away with your knee. “Satoru, is it yours?”

His black pupils, lined with iris the color of morning skies, study your figure from behind the shaded glasses, pink lips quirking slightly upwards in approval of your attention.

“Nah, it's only staying with me for a week,” he stated, watching nervously as you strode over to him. “His owner is away for some business.”

Your attention remained fixed on the pet in Satoru's long, long arms. Your face lit up when a bark escaped the infant animal. “Can I hold it?”

Satoru watched over you carefully, pleading eyes coming in line with his blues. You make it hard to say anything other than an immediate yes, but he tries to stretch out the conversation to his best ability.

“It's 400 yen for 10 minutes,” he muttered, sarcasm dripping from his words. He earned a look of amusement from you; a small victory. He then braced himself for the next part. Satoru bent down, meeting you eye-to-eye, and noticed your breath catching in anticipation. “Or... you can shorten your skirt.”

Your face took no time to grow hot, not giving any verbal answer besides the blank expression you stare at him with. For a second, Gojo let himself think he's the victor of this little challenge he started in his head. But he soon came to realize how grave of a mistake he's made.

You're not flustered, you're angry.

“You're such a fucking pervert,” you fume, eyes glaring daggers. He dares not move, noticing the way your eyes flutter over his face.

“You're truly unbelievable,” the shorter male chuckled, making sure he didn't bump into Satoru's now-bruised arm. “What were you even thinking?”

“I thought it was funny, y'know?” He huffed in response. Gojo's fingers ran through his own bright locks as he took a seat on the wood hung up by metal chains. "Besides, has she always been this strong? Physically, I mean."

Geto stared into the reddish sky of dusk, placing himself into a swing in turn and kicking the air so the swing would start moving. "I don't know. Girls are really full of surprises.”

He never thought, not in a million years, things would come to this. Ever since Gojo's last encounter with Geto after he, well, changed... Gojo became unable to face anyone quite the same way he did before.

How did he get here? How did things escalate to this? Thinking about it, Geto had shown signs of a change in his heart and mind. It was Satoru's fault, was it not? He should have done better. He should have noticed. How could he not have? wasn't he the strongest? Wasn't that his job? How could he be so bad at everything?

How could he fail everyone like this?

“Gojo-San?”

Your feminine voice cut his train of thought. He almost forgot the situation he is now stuck in. He's been doing that a lot: losing himself in thought, mind almost immune to the outer world until he temporarily lost his sense of self. Nothing felt quite the same any more. It was like the world had lost its color.

“Sorry- What's up?” He turned to you. Gojo-san, you called him. When did you stop using his given name? What's with the '-san'? Gojo hadn't realized that losing one person was the first step, and now he found himself deep in the road of losing everyone.

And now he's stuck in the elevator with the girl he had liked for so long. He couldn't find it in himself to say anything to you, to push your buttons like he always did or joke around. When did the world become so heavy? He does not know.

“Are you okay? You seemed off.”

Your face is devoid of any genuine emotion, seemingly expressionless. But your voice is laced with concern. Gojo could only guess you didn't want him thinking you pity him or anything of such. But if that isn't the case, he wouldn't know. He's too tired to bother thinking about it.

“Yeah, yeah. I'm fine,” he smiled in assurance, “Just bothered by, well, this-” he threw his hand in the way of the control panel. The elevator doors have been stuck for almost twenty minutes now. How pleasant.

“uh huh,” you sigh, turning back around. How did you turn so cold?

When the silence stretches, you start a conversation, hesitant at first. “By the way, I got accepted as a helper in a nursery in Kyoto,” you mutter, gaze avoiding his own. “they're expecting me to start work right after spring break.”

Spring break?

Holy shit. It hit him like a truck. That’s barely a week and a half from now.

“Spring break? Why so soon?”

“That’s when the students file back in,” you mumble, fiddling with the watch placed around your wrist. You pause to read the time, then turn to meet his eyes. “I’m leaving in four days to get settled.”

“Oh…” His breath caught, “Train?”

What a stupid question. He knows. Satoru has never been unintelligent, especially in conversing. But now his unintelligence shines through as if it’s his only trait. He’s glad you don’t question it.

“Yeah, I have no other form of transport really.”

“Well, uh…” He hates himself. He hates himself for not doing anything. He hates himself for being so weak and cowardly, for being unable to keep his friends around him, for shutting everyone he holds close out. But now, he especially hates himself for being unable to feel happy for you, or to congratulate you on the opportunity, “come visit us every once in a while, yeah?”

Your mouth remains shut, only staring at the tall man before your eyes. The silence stretches between the two of you once again, and you don’t find it in you to speak of how you feel.

“You.. you know you could have died, right? We all could have b-but you…” You trail off, thoughts splattered like a spilled pot of ink. Although you seemed unfazed, in your mind you were anything but. Haibara, Riko, and all the losses that trailed and every event that followed has been stressful and nerve-wrecking. And even in the quietness and silence of the general atmosphere, it has been nearly impossible to find peace within yourself.

“Well, I didn’t. What happened had passed. Can you change that? I doubt so. No point in ‘if’ and ‘could’ve’.”

Before you could respond,the lights flickered back on. You grow unsure if you’ve struck a nerve, but that wasn’t what you meant. Gojo’s response had nothing to do with what you said, you were sure he knew exactly what your words were meant for. Why is he so scared of confronting it?

You don’t know. You could never hope to know because you and Gojo Satoru live in different worlds, the man who was only Satoru some time ago. You were worlds apart, yet Satoru loved to play pretend that he lived in the same world as you, even when he stuck out like a sore thumb. But he was no longer. Ever since Geto left… it’s safe to say everyone has been changing slowly, deforming from their previous lives and personalities. But Satoru flipped, like the head and tail of a coin, he got himself a new face. He turned into Gojo Satoru; the strongest. A soul unalive. A broken boy in an ever growing body. A stranger.

Two days later you find yourself still roaming the campus , searching so desperately for something. Anything. A reason to stay, perhaps? You don’t find it anyway. You have no attachment as this place holds nothing but misery. Or that’s what you told yourself over and over as you packed your things.

Your steps were graceful, walking so cautiously as if careful to not wake someone up. Your fingers find rest on the old, dusty door frame, pushing yourself into the room that hadn’t been used for a good month or so. The classroom looked the same as it always did. Except for the shadow that loomed over it; a gray shade that sent chills down your spine. Or maybe it’s just your imagination.

Then you spot something rather out of place. You’re sure you’ve never seen it before and although you know it’s none of your business, the way it tugs at the strings of your curiosity is undeniable.

It’s red, poking out of what you’re sure is Gojo’s desk. The gloomy classroom was no fit for paper with a color so vibrant.

Your heart skips a beat when you glimpse the seat next to Satoru’s. You do your best to avoid looking at Geto’s desk any further. You busy yourself with the task at hand, reaching out for the mysterious paper hidden in the wooden desk. Shivers run up your arm at the texture of the scrunched paper.

You attempt to straighten it to your best ability, strained by his hard work of crumbling it with obvious frustration. you can barely make out the letters of your name in the middle of the paper, outlined by a messy circle. How Gojo of him. A few lines stick out of the ‘circle’, one of them has the name of a steakhouse somewhere in Tokyo. Another has a date, reading somewhere along February. It’s near impossible to make out what the small combination of letters say, especially when Satoru’s handwriting is closer to symbols than a comprehensible language.

The thought of it was so funny it didn’t feel like him at all. Satoru never planned anything. Every breath he took was based on pure impulse. Never would it have occurred to you that he thinks through things, let alone brainstorm.

The thought makes you smile. But the realization that he never asked you out because he changed his mind or everything that happened getting in his way makes your stomach churn unpleasantly.

You decide it’s probably for the best to never bring it up. It would only make matters worse for both of you. Life ran its course; who are you to try and change it?

“I apologize, but my answer remains. I refuse to take part in this,” you spoke in an even tone. “I have a job and a life away from jujutsu. I’ve made it clear sorcery is not a part of my life anymore.”

"That’s completely understandable,” the old man argued, his voice hoarse with age. You’re pretty sure you hear anger further straining his voice, “but your technique is quite strong. That strength could be of great assistance if put to use.”

“Thank you, sir,” you dip your head, maintaining eye contact with the decaying man. “But I truly apologize. The decision is final.”

“If you ever do change your mind, please let us know. We’d be more than happy to hear it.”

You almost let a sigh of relief escape. Finally he gave up. You end up only nodding your head in response gratefully, retreating from the old man. As soon as you're safe and out of sight, you let your posture drop, eyes rolling back in annoyance. These guys are truly as relentless as ever.

You stopped upon a familiar scent catching in your nostrils. Lifting your head up, your eyes roam around, scanning the room for your friend.

“You look troubled,” Shoko approaches you, taking the cigarette out from between her teeth. “What’s with the face?”

“How is that man even alive,” you look at her, “he’s ancient.”

Your comment earns a light chuckle from the brunette. “I’m glad I never have to get caught up in this bullshit.”

“Blissed aren’t you,” you roll your eyes as you speak. “I shouldn’t have come in the first place, I knew they were going to do this.”

“It’s alright, you’re all done now. Here-” Your friend then lifts the cigarette up, putting it near your mouth. When you don’t show any resistance she, being the bad influence she has always been, proceeds to place it between your lips. You waste no time, making quick work of the drag you inhale, bringing the familiar cloud of toxic chemicals and tobacco into your lungs. Your expression relaxes, shifting into one of relief. Shoko scoffs playfully, muttering that you’re dramatic under her breath before she pulls her cigarette from you, taking in a drag.

“Satoru’s here, by the way,” Shoko didn’t need to look at you to guess the way your eyes snap towards her. She bites back a smile. “He’s calmed down. He’d even seem the same as long as you don’t squint too hard.”

“Good for him,” you mutter, trying to seem as unbothered and nonchalant as your accelerating heart rate would allow. You avoid looking at Shoko, trying to seem disinterested. You know she’d pretend you weren’t gawking at her the second she said his name.

“He’s trying, you know. He’s just as nervous as you are.”

“‘M not nervous,” you scoff, “For god’s sake. It’s been ten years already.”

Satoru is stressed. He's nervous, as Shoko put it. He’d spent so long trying to ignore the past, pretend the past wasn’t at all. He couldn’t confront it. He didn’t want to. Satoru knows what he’s done, he's aware that he hurt you the last time you two had interacted. And that was ten years ago. He even let you leave without so much as a goodbye. How could he look you in the eye and pretend nothing has ever happened?

Gojo didn’t want to face the consequences of what he’s done. More so what he hasn’t. So many things were left unsaid in the elevator that day. They’ve been hanging over Satoru ever since, weighing his heart down and wearing it out.

What if he’s met by another woman? Ten years change a lot as is. What if the eyes that meet his aren’t yours? What if he finds himself talking to a stranger that carries around your name and features? Of all the horrors Gojo Satoru had faced in his life, nothing caused dread to pool in the pit of his stomach like this thought does.

Shoko seems to find something beyond you interesting. You don’t bother to turn to see as the brunette has always been a little in her own head. She’s probably just dozed off.

“Hey, think you can hold this for me?” Shoko muttered once Gojo crossed her sight. She stands facing you, averting his gaze. “I’ll be right back, nature’s calling.”

From his distance, Gojo couldn’t make out what the two of you were saying. He watched as your shoulders shook, presumably in laughter. Shoko then made her away from you, barely sparing Satoru a glance.

Every step he took felt heavy, weights landing on his shoulders as he moved towards you. He watched smoke emerge from over your head. He didn’t know you smoked. And even though he’s not completely sure what you do for a living now, he’s not expecting any nursery to accept a smoker in their team.

His long strides finally arrived, opting to remain a step behind you. Close enough to make his presence known.

The aura was unmistakable, almost as if it could be physically sensed. You freeze in place, the cigarette remaining a few inches from your lips. Even after he changed his perfume to one a lot more manly and appealing, and clearly grew taller judging by the shadow he cast over you, his presence still had the same strength as it did before. If not stronger. Anyone else would say it’s intimidating. But you find surprising comfort in it.

“That’s going to kill you,” his hand reached from over your head, making sure to not cause any unnecessary physical contact. His fingers slip the burning cigarette from your grip. You find yourself unable to make a single move in response, only watching his actions unfold.

He took a step, moving closer, dimming the light from the roll by rubbing it against the metal bars, then throwing it off the balcony. “You’re too young to kill yourself like that.”

“That bitch Shoko set me up,” You hiss, regaining your composure. “Will you look who showed up. You’re killing the ecosystem by throwing waste like this, Gojo.”

Although you haven’t glanced his way yet, You were every bit sure his mouth was quirked in the same smug smirk he wore so much when you were younger. You could even hear it in his voice as he spoke, “You haven’t grown at all, have you?”

“Oh shut it,” you chuckle. “You’re still as immature as ever. How you could be a manchild at 27 is a wonder to me.”

27… It felt so weird to say it out loud. Weren’t you just 17 a few days ago?

“Oh, how you hurt me,” he says in exaggeration, his voice conveying anything but the hurt he claims to feel. “That isn’t very nice of you.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” You say. He laughs a little, you do too. But the silence that follows is not that of a joke. He knew what you’re referring to. Maybe he underestimated your last encounter’s effect on you.

The silence speaks for itself. It’s louder than any conversation you’ve had before. What now? What have we become? Is it of any use to try anymore? Neither of you had an answer to the question that began to surface with this interaction.

The questions remain hung in the air, dimming the atmosphere around you. Was this fate’s doing? Or his karma? Gojo has always been told he’s a god, but how could he be a higher form of life when he struggled so much to hold a conversation?

He’s about to speak again when you cut him off, muttering “here-” as you push your hand down the coat you wore. Your tongue pokes at the inside of your cheek as you search for the anonymous object.

You pull out a worn out paper, grown from what could have been a bright red to an orangish shade. His eyes study as you shove the paper in his direction, eyes avoiding his gaze at all costs.

Seeing your bashful expression made him rather curious, the contents of the wrinkled paper piquing his interest. He hesitates before he pulls the paper from your hand, half-expecting you to bite him.

The letters were scribbles, almost like they’re straight out of some cult’s ritual, that with the wrinkles of the worn out paper making reading it next to impossible. Still, he could make out just enough to realize what this paper is. His eyes widened behind the blindfold. It didn’t take much to remember this paper, trivial as it may be.

“You found this- how did you even…?” he trails off, confused.

“I guess I did,” You confirm. He’s unsure if you’re proud of yourself for your rather… interesting discovery. It’s bold of you to pull this out ten whole years later. But he can’t deny the relief he feels that at least this means you don’t completely hate him. For once, he’s truly at loss for words.

But he wouldn’t let a perfect opportunity like this slide.

“Oh, so you’re in love with me? You’re so obsessed with me that you kept this for so many years, what a loyal fangirl.”

Before he knew it, a weight so crushing landed on his foot. He turned off his infinity around you as a sign of trust. But he soon came to regret his rather unsmart decision. Your foot stomped and crushed his toes. It makes him groan in pain, bending slightly forward.

“Tomorrow, at Narisawa in Minato city, 5:30. I’m leaving for Kyoto in 3 days. Don’t waste your chance again, Gojo Satoru. You’re not getting another one.”

“I take it you’ve been in love with me ever since?” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “Say, did you fascinate about me?”

“Hmm..” you hum softly at his childish question, “only a little.” You show no signs of interest in his tactics as you sipped the wine in your hand. Undeniably, Gojo is taken aback by your lack of reaction. He hasn’t known you to be so reserved and smart at keeping him on edge. He couldn’t help finding your new behavior enticing.

Is there anything else you’d like to have?” You nodded your head towards the plates sitting on the table, some empty and some half-full. “Or do you wanna do something else before I go back to the hotel?”

“Hmm? Maybe I could join you at the hotel, actually. Surely it’ll be a lot less lonely with me around?”

You’re tempted by his offer, feeling the heat pooling in your stomach. He looked strikingly handsome today. Maybe you were just really lonely and touch starved, or maybe it’s the way his lips quirk as he teases you that makes your brain a little hazy, inappropriate thoughts floating through it and send jolts to your core. Yet, you set your mind on refusing his advances. You haven’t had a decent conversation since high school, for god's sake.

He keeps his eyes set on you, shining before him. You looked glamorous. He’d lie if he said there wasn’t a certain allure to your matured looks. The years that flew by changed a lot of things about you two, but his breath still catches in his throat when your eyes meet his dreamy blues. The feelings rush back, memories clouding his train of thought.

He’s sure he’s going to pay. He didn’t mind it at all, what a small price for getting to spend an evening with you. But you surprise him when you bring up that you had already put your card down, courtesy of having been the one to ask him out. Or maybe this was your way of telling him that you are in pretty good condition, living perfectly well without needing sorcery.

“How’s working as a jujutsu teacher?” you quip, smiling softly. “Utahime says you’ve got some interesting kids in your pack? Two special grades, too. You’re sure a favorite attraction for wonders.”

“You’re still in contact with her too?” he dodges talking about his students, not meeting your gaze. “That’s ironic. Weren’t we friends too?”

A hoarse chuckle emerges from him. But nothing about it leads back to amusement, as it was a joyless sound devoid of life. Almost as if he were mocking you. The dark lenses of the shades sitting on the bridge of his nose served as a shield. He curses himself for being so weak. He's almost thirty but somehow you’ve got him acting like he did when he was 17.

“You didn’t try to contact me either,” you shrug, not willing to take the blame for your lack of contact.

“You could have visited then. Even Yaga talked about you every once in a while,” he isn’t too happy and it’s showing.

“All good things, I hope-“

“Don’t change the subject,” he frowns, an uneasy edge outlining his words. “He was enough. You didn’t have to go ahead and leave too.”

“I had to move on, Gojo,” the name felt like a jab every time you used it. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything about it. This is how you drew your boundaries. Calling them by their last names gives you a false sense of satisfaction, convincing yourself that your sorcerer friends are past figures now. Mere acquaintances.

“-I couldn’t remain hung there forever, I valued my mental health. You grew distant, the atmosphere was growing uneasy every day. I had to cut ties with Jujutsu before I couldn’t recognize myself anymore.”

“Yet you’re here now. Back to square one,” his playful tone was long gone, now replaced by an even, stern one. “Whether you moved away or called us by our last names. It’s a curse you can’t escape. you’ll always end up back in the palms or jujutsu.”

His words held some truth. You know that. But just as he refused to confront this past, you repulsed the idea of your reality. You truly want to believe that you could escape this part of yourself and live a normal life. You couldn’t come to terms with your inability. You held onto your hopes as if your sanity completely depended on it. Another thing that won’t change no matter how much you grew.

“I'll be okay as long as I refuse to interact with this world.”

Once you leave the restaurant, you find yourself wandering through the rich streets of Minato city. It felt as though the night was pulling you further into its welcoming embrace, with nothing rushing you.

“He was only thirteen,” you chuckle, arm linked in his. “It’s unbelievable how bold kids nowadays are.”

“I would’ve done the same thing, honestly,” he smirks, his gaze fixed on the stores around.

“Of course. You’ve got the brains of a thirteen year old.”

Satoru grins at your remark, pulling you into a clothes store.

“What’s this?” you look around in confusion, noting a woman in a suit welcoming you. The place looked a little too fancy, judging by the display of the items and the lighting of the place.

“It’s a western brand,” Satoru answers. Looking over at him, you can’t help but smile a little. He looks good tonight. His fancy outfit gave the impression that he’s a model to strangers. “Louis Vuitton, I think,” He furrows his brows, trying to remember the name of the brand stores he’s been to with Nobara and Shoko.

“Prada, sir,” The lady in a suit corrected him. “Can I help you?”

“We’re just browsing, thank you.” It’s a phrase he heard from Kugisaki countless times whenever they wandered into a store. His response makes you chuckle, watching as the lady takes a few steps backwards politely.

You’re soon comfortable, searching through the expensive coats and bags. Satoru watched tenderly. Even though the ten years that passed with no contact whatsoever definitely propose a wall between you, he's glad you're able to feel free. You might nit on the same page, but you two can work with what you have.

You stride back to the “S” shaped velvet couch sat in the middle of the checker-carpet store, where Satoru sat. But he was nowhere to be seen.

You walk around in hesitance and confusion, completely aware of the lady walking always a few feet behind you. Surveillance, you guess.

You find him standing in front of the white counter, taking a black bag with the brand’s name printed onto it in golden letters from the man standing behind the counter in a white shirt with the brand's logo on it.

“Gojo,” you call him, confusion fused into your expression.

He extends his arm to you, trying to suppress any sourness at you calling him Gojo. “Let’s go?”

You nod, eyeing him suspiciously before you link your arm in his. You make sure to flash a grateful smile at the woman by the door as you walk past the reflective glass door.

You almost forgot how busy the world outside is. It felt as though the glass building of the store was sound proof. Now you have to adjust to the noise of the full streets again.

Satoru remains silent for the most part. It’s not awkward, rather just neither of you knew what to say. He expected you to ask about what he bought, which you have considered. You decide against it though as you feel it’s none of your business. You’re not too surprised anyway as Gojo has always been a wealthy man. He could buy the entire Prada chain with half of his monthly spending.

“What do you wanna do now?” He asks. “Wanna go somewhere else?”

You think about going to the club to give the night the best closure. But neither of you were dressed for it anyway. You contemplate your choices. Then you grin at him, and Satoru knows it’s best to fear what comes after

You’re well aware that he has a high alcohol tolerance. While you would be wasted a few shots in. Yet you consumed so many drinks recklessly, thinking that maybe you could beat him in a drinking game.

That’s why he’s stuck to your side now, helping your sleeping body out of his car. Satoru is glad your hotel card was so easy to find in your purse, taking it out as he gets into the lobby.

A few people eye the man, glaring at him and at the way he held you in his arms. But he couldn’t bring himself to think too much about it. His mission is to get you to bed now.

“Satoruuu~” You whine, rubbing your face into the pillow once he sat you on the white bedding. “Stay with meeee”

And Satoru is nothing if not human. Despite what everyone else says. It’s proven now that he had come to face a human flaw like this. He is weak, and you are all but practically seducing him.

“Stop crying,” He mutters. He finds himself smiling sheepishly at the unlikely scenario he found himself in. Tucking you in bed, your face hot due to the drinks you had. He really should have stopped you. “I’ll stay the night, so sleep already.”

He convinced himself it’s for the best. He should watch over you for tonight. No funny business. Deep inside he knew he was just finding a reason— any reason to stay around you for a little longer, heart yearning for the lost years. But he ignored the pathetic feeling, convincing himself it’s for your sake instead.

“But I’m uncomfortableee,” you whine again, hands running down your body. “The dress...”

Did you have to make it so hard on him? Satoru is tempted to kiss you, eyebrows knitted in the space between, eyes looking around the room for any sort of aid.

This is probably a form of invading your privacy, but he sees no other choice. He’ll have to hold it together for tonight.

“nngh..”

Your groan came with an impending headache. Your body moves against the rich covers of the bed, sunlight illuminating your physique.

He stopped in his tracks, feet bare against the gray carpet.

Your form is beautiful, one to compete with statues of goddesses. The rays of light complimented every inch of skin in all the right ways. Satoru had to physically shake his head to stop the flowing perverted thoughts in his head.

Your flinch when you catch him standing near the door, heart beating slightly faster. You thought that you’re alone. You don’t think much of it anyway, muttering a “holy shit” under your breath.

“Good morning,” he casually greets, brushing off the mutual shock, albeit for different reasons. “I made coffee, if you wanted some.”

“Oh... thank you,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes as you sit up straight. “Did you eat anything yet?”

“Not yet, no,” he says, holding his overly sweet coffee in both palms. “Thought I’d wait until you woke up.”

“You’re a real sweetheart, Satoru,” you yawn. His name slipped past your lips before you could stop it. You busy yourself with stretching your arms. “What a doting housewife God has blessed me with”

His response is only a chuckle, rolling his eyes as he sighs on the edge of the bed. “Well, at least I wasn’t begging a man to spend the night with me”

“Huh?”

You couldn’t remember anything of the prior night. Nothing that occurred after you sat at the bar, specifically. But then you begin to realize, eyes widening at the revelation. You feel dreadfulness landing in the pit of your stomach a little too late.

He’s shirtless, wearing only his suit pants. And even though you wouldn’t mind the sight any other day, the fact that you are in your pajamas isn’t helping at all.

“Did we...” You trail off, expression darkening. Your eyes meet his own, fear implanted in your pupils. You watch as his expression drifts from confusion to an awkward hesitance. Unsure how to break the news to you.

You don’t know what to expect, not realizing you’re holding your breath.

“I-I’m sorry,” He sighs, gaze faltering as his eyes look away from you. Your eyes widen further, oxygen becoming hard to consume.

What have you done?

“But- don’t worry. You know I’m not some asshole...” if anything, he sounded chivalrous. “I-I’ll be accountable for my mistake. When do you want to hold the wedding?”

You gasp, face feeling hot. “You piece of shit-“ You groan as your foot reaches him, forcefully pushing him off the bed. “As if!”

He breaks into a fit of laughter, the sound full of genuine delight. “I can’t believe you fell for it,” He manages between the laughter.

“Fuck you, Satoru,” you mutter, a smile of relief breaking across your face. “I can’t believe you pulled something so childish.”

“Why are you so down?” He climbed back onto the bed, reclaiming his spot on the edge. “Are you disappointed? You know it’s never too late to just as-“

“Fuck off,” Your heart is pounding as you send him another kick, less forceful this time. “Say one more word about it and I’ll make sure you don’t make it out of this room in one piece.”

He laughs, asking you to pass his coffee. You reach for his coffee from the bedside table. Your fingers lift the glass mug to your lips, sipping at the hot beverage before handing it to him.

Your face scrunches up at the horrible taste. Too much sugar. Too much milk. It’s a lot worse than you might think.

“Your coffee should be criminal,” you push the mug his way, frowning. Satoru hums in response.

There’s no awkwardness between the two of you, and he can’t help but cherish it. He feels content, enough to sit a little closer, at least.

Enough to lean in towards you, mouth closing over yours in an ever awaited kiss, at least.

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